Molly's Journey

Home > Other > Molly's Journey > Page 9
Molly's Journey Page 9

by Sheila Newberry


  Molly couldn’t help betraying her surprise. ‘Oh, I love Fay dearly and I’m going to miss her terribly, too, and one day I hope I have a little girl of my own just like her. But didn’t Alexa tell you my plans? I’m going to work at her business, the House of Leather, until the autumn to earn some money to finance my future – in case my father doesn’t approve and cuts me off without a penny.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’d never do that, Molly.’

  ‘Well, he might, because I’m going to join some friends from Australia. They’re circus performers travelling in Europe right now, but they’ll be wintering here in England and then they’ll train me to join them in their act – they’re acrobats. I don’t know if my father ever mentioned it – I don’t suppose he did, but I’ll be following in my mother’s footsteps because she was a dancer once.’ Molly paused for breath.

  ‘Steady on,’ Matthew said mildly. ‘Well, my offer can’t compete with that . . . More lemonade, Fay? Wipe your sticky hands on the grass, eh, not on your dress.’

  ‘Rory Kelly!’ Fay grinned. ‘Whoops-a-daisy!’ And she performed a perfect somersault, landing with her feet in her father’s lap.

  ‘You don’t need me,’ Molly told him. ‘You’re a natural father, Matthew. Fay’s a very lucky little girl.’

  ‘Then I hope you’ll give a favourable report to Mrs Nagel! But thank you for saying that. I do want to be a good parent to Fay more than anything. My own father also worked abroad – he still does – and my mother stayed with him. That was her choice, and I believe it was right for if things had been different Lucy would eventually have joined me in India. When I was young I travelled with my parents, of course, until I was sent back to school here when I was twelve. They considered they were doing their best for me, but I don’t want all those goodbyes for Fay. I don’t want to miss out on any more of her childhood, especially as she only has me.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I wish you the very best of luck, and you know you’re always welcome to visit us here at any time.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will,’ Molly said. Then she scrambled to her feet. ‘Come on, Fay, I’m going to show you how to roll downhill – it’s the greatest fun! Don’t worry, Matthew, I know what I’m doing – I’ll stop her going all the way!’

  *

  Matthew was surprisingly competent in the kitchen. He insisted on cooking dinner for the two of them once Fay was in bed that evening.

  ‘Can we eat out on the terrace?’ Molly asked. ‘It’s too nice to be cooped up indoors. We’ll leave the door open so we can hear Fay if she wakes and calls.’

  Matthew carried out a collapsible card table and covered the green baize with a doubled-up tablecloth. There were garden chairs already out there, and he lit a candle and stuck a single full-blown pink rose in a little vase. Molly brought cutlery and a basket of bread rolls.

  Fillet steak, mushrooms cooked in butter, and mashed potato; raspberries picked from the garden, dusted with sugar and served with cream; a glass of red wine; finally, tiny cups of coffee.

  ‘There – my clean plate speaks for itself, doesn’t it? And, look, I didn’t get a single thing down my front,’ Molly said ingenuously. She leaned towards him across the table so that he could see the dinner dress, which Alexa had insisted she pack ‘just in case’, was unmarked. Her bare throat gleamed white in the candlelight. ‘Thank you, Matthew, I enjoyed every mouthful.’

  ‘You’re so like Lucy,’ he said, almost to himself.

  ‘Alexa said that once – not in looks, of course.’ She took it as a compliment, but wondered what was coming next.

  ‘No. Lucy was tall like her mother, with black, curly hair – a beautiful face. She was lively like you, though, with a great sense of fun – and, like you, she had no artifice. When I saw you playing with Fay, I couldn’t help thinking that Lucy would have been the same. So Alexa sees that quality in you, too? It’s such a pity that she did not understand at the time, was jealous because it had been just the two of them for so long. When Lucy and I met and fell so passionately in love, she was compelled to follow her feelings and it hurt her mother dreadfully. I must guard against that myself . . . ’

  ‘Oh, you’ll get married again, surely?’ Molly blurted out.

  He shook his head. ‘At the moment, I can’t see that happening. She’d need to be a very special lady.’

  It was getting towards dusk; the midges were becoming a nuisance. It was an excuse for Matthew to blow the candle out and pile the tray with dishes. ‘Time to go in, I think. Thank you for those kind words and the good company, Molly.’ He added casually, unexpectedly: ‘Who is Rory Kelly?’

  ‘He’s one of my circus friends.’

  ‘Maybe rather more than that?’ he hazarded a guess.

  ‘What has Fay been telling you! He might think – hope – so but —’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you, you know!’

  ‘Of course not. It’s just that, well, over the last few days I feel we’ve become good friends, and I sense you’re not entirely happy, despite your smiling face. I wonder: am I right?’

  ‘You’ve been honest with me, so if you really want to know, I fell hopelessly in love with another chap when we were on the farm. He said he was too old for me, that he was going back to his home country. I knew he had feelings for me because he gave himself away before he left. I told myself it was just infatuation and that I would forget him, would find someone else. It could have been Rory if I hadn’t received a letter from the other one, saying he’d made a mistake, that he wanted us to be together. But by then it was too late. I only learned this after he had left Australia . . . ’

  Matthew put the tray down on the table and gave her a brief brotherly hug. ‘I understand how you feel, Molly, I really do,’ he said softly. ‘You can always talk to me.’

  *

  Rory was touring in France with Cora and Thom. He believed he had a great idea for a new double act but decided not to mention this in the letter he sat writing over afternoon tea in the caravan.

  Dear Molly,

  How is life treating you, now you are back at home once more? You must excuse smears of butter and crumbs from Cora’s soda bread . . . We live the life of Riley – well, Kelly! – as you know. Our present tour is going well, but we miss our circus ‘family’ in Australia, and, of course, Mum in Melbourne and the rest of ‘em, scattered around Down Under.

  Cora has decided to work behind the scenes in the future – she misses her dogs now they are retired and living with my mother. She and Thom send their best, and like me, look forward to seeing you when you join us in October.

  We will be spending the winter in the farmhouse where Cora was born. It belongs to her cousin now. The land was sold long ago, but there are a couple of useful barns, one where we can store the caravan and things – the other we will use for rehearsing . . . So you won’t have to worry about proprieties in a caravan just yet!

  I will advise date and address nearer the time. Cora estimates that you will need around £25 to cover your lodging and food until spring.

  Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy your proposed stay with Mrs Nagel and Nancy in London. I will send this to that address.

  Your friend,

  Rory Kelly

  Cora was busy, too, among the teacups and plates: darning the toes of a pair of pink tights. She squinted her eyes as she read the letter. ‘Is it all right, Cora?’ Rory asked.

  ‘I shall have to get myself some spectacles. Strange, I can still see plain enough to thread a needle, but print is difficult these days,’ she sighed.

  ‘I suffer from the same problem,’ Thom said ruefully, reaching for the last piece of currant bread.

  ‘Like me, with the needle, you can see what you want to see, Thom Kelly – like a pretty girl.’

  ‘Now, Cora, I never even winked at the Orla girls.’

  ‘And mind you behave yourself when young Molly arrives!’ his wife retorted. ‘Anyway, Rory will no doubt see you toe the line. He thinks we
don’t know why he’s so keen for Molly to join the Kellys. It’s not exactly usual to take on someone so inexperienced, eh?’ she added slyly and passed the letter back to him. ‘It’ll do!’

  ‘She made it clear,’ Rory said, ‘that we were just friends and not to expect more. So did Mrs Nagel. I made her a promise.’

  ‘You shouldn’t make promises you might not be able to keep,’ Cora told him shrewdly. ‘I might tease my old Thom, but I know he made his mind up when he first saw me that he’d stick by me for ever.’

  ‘And I have! But I can’t help the occasional twinkle in my eye, Cora, you know that, too.’ He gave his wife’s topknot an affectionate tweak.

  They know I’ve fallen for Molly Sparkes, Rory thought wryly. Well, I’ll stick by her, just like Thom with Cora. But I’ll keep my word, if I can.

  Molly hugged Nancy. ‘Oh, you look so smart, Nancy! I’ve missed you. We’ve got lots of giggling to catch up on! I wish we were actually working together, too, only Alexa says my sewing’d never come up to scratch so I’m to be dogsbody in the office. But I don’t mind, I’m determined to earn the money I need for the winter with the Kellys!’

  They were in Molly’s room on Sunday evening. On Monday morning they would report for duties at the House of Leather. Nancy was showing off her new working outfit, dark suit and smart white blouse, to Molly. Arms round each other’s shoulders, they smiled happily at their reflection in the cheval mirror.

  ‘I felt all grown up until you came home, Molly!’ Nancy said. She patted her upswept hair ruefully. ‘This took me ages to do! Alexa made me rub in almost a whole bottle of almond oil before I washed it.’

  ‘Well, it was worth it,’ Molly observed. ‘It looks all soft and honey-coloured. You’ll have lots of young men buzzing round you like bees, I reckon.’

  Alexa, coming to see if Molly was unpacked, heard them laughing, and smiled herself. Lucy would have been pleased to know that she had not one, but two, young protégées, she knew.

  TWO

  The long table down the centre of the workroom was heaped with remnants of leather, suede, and smooth, soft doeskins, some pale, some dyed; then there were punches and hammers, the cutting boards and knives. Two women sat there, absorbed in their work: one painstakingly hand-sewing a loop of fringing on a pouched bag, the other repairing a strap to a travelling bag which had come unfastened. A man treadled a sewing machine in an alcove, framed by a tower of drawers on either side; a small, grilled window, above his bent head afforded a glimpse of the busy street below, with those hurrying to work holding on to hats in a sudden gusty shower of rain. It was still too early in the day for customers seeking to buy a handsome Gladstone bag, a valise or even a saddle. The gas lamps flared from the domed ceiling for it was a dreary, dark morning. There was a definite smell of new leather, not unpleasant but very different from the odour of soaped, sweat-stained and worn leather saddles, boots and chaps to which Nancy was so accustomed back home in Australia. When the door closed she felt immediate unease, a prickling sensation, as if she was cornered, unlikely to escape. Another familiar feeling, disturbing in this instance.

  She moved forward uncertainly, with Mr Loom, the manager – somewhat intimidating with his frock coat, bristling black eyebrows and side-whiskers accentuating his high forehead and jutting chin – looming, she thought, beside her. He spoke in a hushed, dry voice, as if whispering in chapel. ‘This is Miss Nancy Atkins – Mr Walter?’ The treadle ceased its momentum. ‘I leave her in your capable charge.’ He turned to Nancy and surprised her with a sympathetic smile and remark. ‘No need to be nervous, Miss Atkins. We were all beginners once. I will talk to you later.’

  He went out through the stockroom and they heard his footsteps echoing on the stairs as he descended to the offices on the first floor. The showroom took up the entire ground floor of this tall building, and the one next door, too. The workroom was in stark contrast to that.

  Nancy was starting work a full hour before Molly, although this first morning she and Mrs Nagel had kindly accompanied her on the bus from Whitechapel to the heart of the City between the Bank of England and Liverpool Street Station. The shop was in Wormword Street, a narrow road off Old Broad Street; on the way they’d passed a nice old church with a pleasant garden and a Turkish Baths with striking minarets. She’d tried to memorise the journey, for she would be travelling home on her own tonight. She was so intent on this that she walked by the other businesses without a second glance, did not even notice the steps being scrubbed and whitened, the brass plates on solicitors’ doors being energetically huffed on and rubbed by an anonymous band of pale-faced cleaning women in drab clothes. Finally they’d arrived at Mrs Nagel’s House of Leather. Above, to the right of the double-fronted building, were rooms rented to a brace of bespoke tailors; to the left all was Nagel’s. Nancy drifted dreamily through the showroom displays – she was getting as bad as Molly, she thought ruefully. Now, she faced reality.

  Mr Walter’s handshake was limp, his fingers cold, white at the tips. ‘Poor circulation,’ he told her, with a little sigh. He obviously suffered from bad feet, too, Nancy saw as he shuffled forward to introduce her to the sewing ladies who at last looked up and stopped working for a moment. ‘Nancy – this is my sister, Agnes, and this is our youngest sister, Minnie, Mrs Gage. We are a family concern here, you might say.’

  ‘But welcome anyway! We can do with another pair of hands. Some of this latest consignment of goods from abroad needs more than a stitch or two before it can go on display,’ Agnes said bluntly. She patted a chair beside her. ‘Throw you in at the deep end, shall we? See what you can do? No repairs for you today – that’s skilled work; we repair anything the customer brings us, however worn. We’re supposed to fill idle moments . . . that’s a laugh, ain’t it, Minnie?’ Her sister’s sour expression belied this, as Agnes continued ‘ . . . by making small items from the scraps of new leather – Mr Loom won’t have no waste: bookmarks, pencil cases, spectacle and comb cases, and that. Madam’s always pleased – as if we done it from the goodness of our hearts. Here, choose from this lot, and I’ll show you how to go about it.’

  ‘Give her an apron first, Aggie,’ Minnie said quickly. ‘She won’t want to spoil them smart clothes.’ Her tone was unmistakably malicious. We don’t really need anyone else up here, you’ve been thrust on us, was unsaid but instantly interpreted by Nancy, who flushed miserably and obediently donned the coarse apron with deep pockets. Wearing this brought her down to earth. She wasn’t a young lady at all, in clothes that were more suited to an office position, but an ignorant working girl – one step up from a nursemaid, perhaps. Or was she even that? No smart uniform came with this job.

  Lanky, lean people; Walt, Agnes and Minnie, no longer young, Nancy thought. But it was hard to guess their ages: all three had wiry black hair peppered with grey, but the women obviously had better circulation than their brother, judging by their florid complexions. They mopped their damp foreheads occasionally with a man’s large handkerchief, which they passed from hand to hand. ‘Get proper steamed up, we do, it’s our time of life,’ as Agnes soon confided. Unlike her sister, she seemed both kind and helpful, and slowly Nancy began to relax.

  ‘What d’you know about leather?’ Walt asked when, later, they sipped at chipped mugs of scalding tea brought to them by a whistling lad with a pencil stuck behind his ear and a pocketful of twine. Agnes unwrapped slabs of bread and cheese, which she generously shared with the newcomer, despite Minnie’s frowns. ‘Second breakfast, eh?’

  ‘Skins,’ Nancy ventured. ‘Tanned, ain’t they?’

  ‘Cleaned first, of course, steeped in lime water then scraped. Tanning used to take more’n a year – sometimes three or four. They used to lay the skins in a pit and cover ‘em with tan, that’s oak bark, then fill the pit with water and leave it. Nowadays, they use a concentrated solution of bark and it don’t take long. Then they’re greased, waxed, dyed; treated with vegetable extracts, so the hides won’t rot when they get w
et. Heard of skiver?’ Nancy shook her head. ‘That’s the stuff for linings. Know what yufts are?’ His eager look told her he guessed she wouldn’t, so he could tell her.

  ‘No.’ The cheese was hard – leather-like, she thought, as she swallowed a lump, so as not to hurt their feelings. A bit of butter on the bread would’ve helped, she thought. Getting used to little luxuries, wasn’t she? She’d never tasted butter until she went to work for Mrs Nagel, looking after Fay, back home in Australia. These people must be poor, too. But respectable, not like her family . . . More thieving and drinking, her dad and the boys did, than honest toil. Being the only daughter was no privilege. And her ma – poor Ma – how was she getting on without Nancy? She blinked rapidly as she took in what Walt was saying.

  ‘Russian leather, oxhides, tough stuff. Here, feel this . . . ’ Walt was obviously knowledgeable and enthusiastic about his trade. She cautiously rolled the piece between finger and thumb. That seemed to be the procedure. He nodded approvingly.

  Skiver and yufts – yufts and skiver, Nancy repeated to herself. She had a feeling Mr Loom was going to ask her a few questions later on!

  ‘That’s a piece of Moroccan you’re working on,’ Agnes told her.

  Nancy was actually enjoying all this background information. She’d always had an insatiable thirst for knowledge. She already had sore fingers from pushing her needle through the material, but this made it seem worthwhile. ‘From Morocco, I s’pose?’ she asked pertly. Some of Molly’s self-confidence was gradually rubbing off on her, but she’d always been determined, in her quiet way, to rise above whatever fate threw at her. She got that from Ma.

  ‘Invented there, Nancy, but this was made in Clerkenwell. Goatskins take the dye better and produce much brighter colours.’

  ‘Where’s Morocco?’ Nancy wondered.

  ‘Barbary,’ Walt told her.

 

‹ Prev